Stingray: Last Dance
by LeaO'Neill
Summary: For anyone who remembers 80's tv show Stingray Nick Mancuso , this is my take on many years later.
1. Chapter 1

Ray left me this car. Ray took a piece of my soul.

Sometimes I stand in the doorway of the barn and stare at it, though covered with a grey cover.

My Tahoe, parked next to the car, has no luxury of a cover. I don t need to remove to cover to see the car; I know every line, every curve, the coolness of the hard metal, smooth under my hand.

Don t get me wrong, I keep it maintained and serviced regularly. I keep the fluids good, tires up and yes, even drive it occasionally. When the night is too long and the city calls me to loudly, I take the car and prowl the streets. As it winds through curves, hugging the road, or purrs through city traffic, I can feel eyes coveting.

Those are the times we are one, the car and me. 1965 Corvette. Stingray. Black.

It had the Big block V8 engine, tapering rear deck, and hidden headlamps that were the classic markers of the 65. There was no mistaking the classic.

Here though, in the dim evening light, dust filtering through the musty air, the car taunts me haunts me. Most of all it makes me think too much. And when I think, I always think of Ray.

Ray is another classic. He was my mentor, my friend. So many other words I can use to describe him in my life: teacher, coach, comforter, protector, confidant and occasionally, yes, lover. Our relationship of 20 years, which lasted longer than some marriages, was unique. Ray was 12 years older than me, and sometimes that was like another lifetime. Other times, there seemed to be no difference.

Our time together began when he started training me in martial arts. As a master of Tai Chi, Taekwando, Judo, and Akido, plus a range of weapons techniques, Ray was himself a quite lethal weapon. Rarely did he have to use those lethal methods.  
He was thankful of that. But those methods were there and passed skillfully along to me, a young woman of 25 at that time. I wanted to learn from the man whom I knew so little about. I realize now that though he taught me so much, I still have plenty to learn. He hadn t exactly wanted a student then, but must have somehow figured that a pupil to learn his craft would eventually be needed.

And his craft? Almost unheard of these days. Ray helped people. A man of mystery and character not found in many today. He helped in situations that many would walk away from. He asked nothing in return. Nothing but a favor. The stories of people he helped were many and varied: an elementary school teacher trying to find her husband; a doctor convinced her hospital was killing people on purpose; a traveling religious show where murders followed them; a pharmaceutical chemist who believed his company guilt of deceit; a sculptor being stalked; a cadet at a military institute .  
the list went on and on. All in Ray s personal case files. Also included in his files were weather the person he had helped had later repaid their favor. Most people who crossed through Ray s life never saw him more than twice. I guess I was lucky in that respect.

But who was he? You might ask at this point. Stingray , the car, perhaps the man, a myth maybe. His background was always a bit shadowy. All that most people knew about him was that he advertises surreptitiously in newspapers, ostensibly offering a "'65 black Stingray, for Barter Only To Right Party" and including a telephone number. Those wishing to enlist his services, presumably having learned the ad s real meaning by word of mouth, would call him for help. Ray, if that was ever his real name, was shaped into being. I was privy to some details of his life, but others remained sketchy at best, even to someone who shared his house for more than a decade.

I know he grew up in California, Oregon, Washington and even Canada. Family was not a subject Ray had much to speak about and I know as little today about his roots as I did the day I met him. His mother was dead, apparently since Ray was a young child.  
His father served in some sort of capacity in the military and he too was gone. Ray had spent much time educating himself and was so well versed it was almost unreal.

He turned up in Southern California after Vietnam, where he served from 1968-1974 when Saigon fell. What he did there exactly,  
unclear. But from what I am able to gather, he served as part of a secret U.S. intelligence group. Things he did, things he saw, tortured him I know. Even years later sometimes nightmares came.

I do know that when he returned, he was a changed man. He did not want that life. It was then that his benefactor , a man I only know as Benjamin, instructed him and provided more education and only asked one favor: that Ray help others. This was a favor Ray fulfilled repeatedly.

Ray had many philosophies, one about money : The world runs on money. Everybody walks around with this invisible number in their heads. You hit the figure close enough, the penny drops, you own the man. I take money out of the equation. My hands don t sweat because I m never at the pay window. It was how he operated. Benjamin had seen to it that Ray never needed for anything, which is how Ray set things up for me.

Did I say I was lucky? Yes. I count my blessings in all the things he gave me, including a large part of himself. The part of him that I believe loved me. At least loved me as much as he was capable of.

I secured the barn door and walked back in the ever dimming evening light to the house. 80 acres of forest, meadows and rolling hills surrounded on 2 sides by National Forrest in remote Colorado, this place was a perfect retreat. Benjamin had built most of it and Ray and I finished it.

The house had special features, unique to the lifestyle that sometimes came with danger.

It was a 3 bedroom, 3 bath log cabin style home with river rock accents. Large windows faced the east in the huge lodge style living room. No one would guess that with a touch of a button, either on the remote or the wall, that solid metal covers could be lowered to seal the windows for protection. Just like walking into the large foyer, it would be hard to detect the steel doors that would slide out of the wall, sealing the foyer off from the rest of the house, making a would be intruder a prisoner and keeping them out of the main living areas. You would more likely notice the large living room and river rock fireplace, the view of mountains and the river below, the wood inlay staircase that wound up to the second floor, or the Tuscany styled kitchen with eat in dining area. The furnishings were eclectic, from travels throughout the world, some pieces being very expensive while others were shabby chic finds and vintage pieces collected from thrift stores. But all fit together well, especially in the study, where the library of Benjamin s, Ray s, and mine blended into a literary gold mine. Dark wood ruled this room, cherry finishes, and heavy furniture set off by crystal and more gemstone inlay made this room particularly manly, but I had no reason or call to redo the room. If I tried, I could every once in awhile catch the long past scent of a cigar once smoked over a glass of brandy in this room. Here, again, the casual observer would not notice the panel which when pressed properly, would swing aside and reveal Ray s most personal room. This was where his case files were kept. And where a cache of weapons matched a small armory. I didn t spend much time in there anymore, letting things growing dusty with time.

The house begin to have a fall chill once the sun set, being only September, but high in the mountains. Maybe more for my soul than my body, I lit a fire in the fireplace then put the tea kettle on. It was in these lonely evenings, I was happy to have the company of Blossom, an orange stripped female cat, and Jones, a solid black male kitty. Ray had never been what you call a cat person, but had grown attached to the duo and insisted that they would come as obediently as a dog when he said koomba roomba. (it did work and I still don t understand.) He always said it with a smile and I have a feeling it had something to do with a case from many years ago. I always say I am going to research it in his files, but to this day haven t done it.

As the last of the days' light was replaced by an almost all encompassing black night, I hit the remote button which lowered the metal shutters over all the downstairs windows and then secured the front and back door. I really probably had no need for this much security this deep in the woods, but lately my nerves had been on edge and some of my old paranoia had returned to play in the recesses of my brain. It was most likely too much time alone, too much time thinking.

I took my tea upstairs to the master bedroom where the king sized bed called me. I discovered Blossom and Jones were already at the foot of the bed, one napping one grooming his face. Soon they would bound out of the room to stalk the night, as they were creatures called by it. I on the other hand, was no longer.

For three long years, the gradual anxiety which had followed me all my adult life had come back full force, causing your average gut wrenching full blown panic attack at the most in oppertune times. Ray had taught me many tecniques of meditation and relaxation, but it seemed once he was not around to be my focus, I had put those skills away in the dark closet under the stairs with Ray's clothes.

I decided to have some sleep tonight, so I downed a sleeping pill. I tried not to use them much, as obtaining refills was more work than it was worth. But after several nights of restless sleep, dotted with nightmares or filled with dreams of years past that made my heart ache, I needed a break. A dreamless break.

I slid into pajama bottoms and tank top. I knew by the time I finished my tea and several pages in the book I was reading, the pill would kick in. And tomorrow brought things that had to be done. Things I had been putting off too long.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The twenty minute drive to the nearest town was pleasant in the morning sun. Not too warm, not too cool yet.

Just right to have the windows down in the Tahoe to let the breeze blow my reddish brown hair and the sun hit my already tanned arms.  
So it seems I have told you a lot about Ray and very little about myself. Well, that is how it always went with him.  
He spoke very little about himself. But, I suppose it may be crucial later on for you to know who I am, who I was, and who I am trying to become.

I was a timid college student majoring in psychology and criminal justice at a Southern California university when I started taking an interest in martial arts. I was raised in Seattle and happy to leave the gloom for the sun of SoCal. Camilla Jean Sheridan. Some people called me Cam, some called me CJ. I had mostly acquaintances, not necessarily friends. I had no family either. My parents were killed when I was very young and I had been raised by a great aunt, Cora Lee. She had passed as well right before I started college. She had left me her house and a very old car. I sold the house and packed my things in that old Buick and made a new life.

I concentrated on my studies, already having a good background in the arts. Aunt Cora had seen to it I was raised with art, literature, music, and poetry. I hadn t been allowed to date or hang out. But being a solitary person, I don t think it bothered me not being a typical teenager. I soaked up knowledge like a sponge and made my own fun in that.  
I had also studied, on my own, mechanics. I loved cars. I dabbled a bit in medicine and probably could have passed entrance exams for nursing school, but I didn t want to try at that time.

In college, I lived in an off campus apartment using some of the inheritance that aunt Cora provided. I would roller skate to classes and take long solitary walks on the beach. It was on the beach I began to notice a man a few times a week, early in the morning, practicing Tai Chi. His movements caught my attention, though I tried not to let on over the course of several weeks. He displayed a true movement of meditation, his slow relaxed and graceful movements each flowing into the next like a ballet. It was quite hypnotizing. Once in a while he would catch me staring. And one day, as he finished his coordinated practice, he walked toward me. I had been caught and I had mixed emotions of wanting to flee and longing to know more about the art, and the mysterious man who made it look so inviting.

You ve been watching me for almost three weeks now, he said point blank, toweling off his jet black hair.

I was squirming like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar inside.

Well, it is a public beach, I pointed out.

This elicited a sort of half smile. I thought it would only take a few days for you to introduce yourself. You have patience. I like that.

The arrogance! As if I were just trying to hit on him! I turned to walk away.

And you think I m an arrogant bastard. That s even better.

He fell in step beside me. We should talk. Let me buy you a coffee.

I was so stunned, I didn t really know how to react. I don t drink coffee, I snapped.

He smiled. I ll teach you.

Still flustered, I didn t know what he meant. Was he offering to teach me to drink coffee?

He then took my arm, firmly but gently, but I could feel the power and an undeniable surge of electricity. I stopped walking. I looked at him then.

His eyes were as blue as the ocean behind us.

You want to learn don t you? I can tell. The way you watch. And you re a quick learner too.

Oh and now you re an expert on me? I was still unsure, and nervous and anxious and using my only defense, trying to fend off this sudden intrusion; yet I was the real intruder.

He smiled again, the soft lines in the corner of his eyes deepening. I knew there was no harm to come from him.

You re feisty. He put out his hand. let s try this again. I m Ray.

I slowly took it and we shook, that spark traveling from his hand to mine.

Cam.

Well Cam, how about that coffee now?

Needless to say, we had coffee. He did actually teach me to like coffee. As well as everything else he taught me.

I had to do mundane things like check the mail ( they knew at the post office I came about once a month and saved all the mail, mostly junk, in a crate after the box was full.) I had to get some groceries and animal feed and order my hay for the winter for the horses Galaxy and Helios (fondly Gal and Leo.)

Mrs Winters at the post office happily got my mail crate. There were more people than me who for their own reasons did not come into town often and she was used to this business. I sorted the mostly junk, tossing flyers and ads into the recycle bin before I left. I kept aside several magazines (subscribed in Benjamin s name), and picked up the only notable thing: a manila envelope that looked as though it had been roughed up under a riding mower. It was addressed in a shaky handwriting simply to Ray, Blue Sky Way, Colorado and the zip code. There was no return address. It amazed me that the post office could rarely find you when you needed them to but managed to find someone who was practiced at hiding.

I tore open the flap. Inside was a CD and a letter.

Ray,  
I don t know if you will remember me. My name is Ann Marie. You helped me many years back. My brother Scott was missing . You were able to find him and so influenced him by the end of our time together, he ended up going into the Army and Army Intelligence. He served a brilliant career and is in fact retiring as a decorated officer this year. I contacted you mainly because I have never repaid my favor. I would still like to hold up my end of the bargain. I owe you my brother s life. But also because I know Scott would want you at his retirement. I hope it doesn t sound silly, but you were the only man in his life he ever respected and you led him in the right path. I also know this is probably crazy after all these years, but if this letter does find you, I was told by another client that it would reach you by this address, I will pray we see you on October 23, Scott s retirement party. Don t worry about anything, we will take care of all the arrangements if you will be there. It would just mean so much. I included a movie I made about Scott s life hoping to inspire you to come and the details of the party are included. Ray, I just want another chance to thank you and hopefully repay my favor.

It was signed Anna Marie Stalling. Stalling. Before Stateman, after Sanderson. My mind quickly processed the exact location of the file in Ray s drawer in his office. I put the contents back into the envelope. I would watch the CD, then decide what to do. Maybe a phone number was included. But what a lousy thing to do on the phone.

I walked from the post office and deposited the mail in the Tahoe. I suddenly felt the hairs on the back of my neck raise and an uncomfortable feeling land between my shoulder blades. I turned as nonchalantly as possible. Scanning, sweeping the area with my eyes rapidly. Someone was watching me. Where were they? Why were they? I noticed a man walking rapidly away down the sidewalk past the post office. I linger another moment but the feeling is gone. Maybe he was just checking out my butt, I try to rationalize in as poorly a fashion as I can. Right.

I make a trip to the grocery store, now a bit more wary than I might have been earlier. In the old days, I would have spotted him and stopped him probably with some kind of gun drawn all in under three minutes. Yeah, well, those days are past. Now its all I can do to keep my anxiety at a manageable level in the store. A month s worth of groceries fills up the cart and I check out, paying my 350 dollar bill in cash. Again, I feel eyes on me. More than just casual who s that? eyes. A quick scan and I still can t spot them.

I quickly manage the other errands and am ready to make a quick break out of town. I long for the safety of the house. Leaving the feed store, I notice immediately on the windshield of the Tahoe, stuck under the wiper, a paper. Looking around, still seeing nothing, I snatched it off.

YOU CAN T HIDE FOREVER

I got in the truck, hands shaking. Checking the backseat and then locking the doors, I read it again. Neatly printed out on plain paper.

Who? And why?

Terrified now, I leave. I will be taking the long way home and keeping a watchful eye in the mirror. Here, I am somewhat vulnerable. I say somewhat. I felt between the seat and the console for the smooth steel of the Taurus 9mm pistol. I know there are 11 shots in there to defend my vulnerability. Somehow, the anxiety has subsided and is replaced by a feeling I have not felt in a long time. Anger. And anger makes locked doors in my mind open and training ingrained in there is suddenly as reflexive again as blinking.

Fine. No more hiding. 


	3. Chapter 3

Ray and I had a casual 'instructor/student' relationship that I not only enjoyed, I thrived on. He began by teaching me Tai Chi. Little by little. Day by day. My body, always fair in shape, took on things that made it thrive and my mind opened to a whole new world of possibilities.

_ "Just let your feeling guide you," he said once, while I balanced on a 2 inch wide strip of wood, my eyes closed. "But only let feelings lead when you feel. Your mind can be your most powerful tool. Think and you will always win."_

What the hell am I supposed to think? Maybe it was just too much in one day. The letter, the feeling of being watched, the paper on the windshield… I felt a little more secure once I passed through the electronic gate entrance to the ranch and then watched it securely close behind me, knowing all was being recorded on closed circuit monitors for me to review later. The gate and various locations around the property perimeter had motion sensors that recorded 30 second bursts with sustained motion, like driving or walking.

It took short minutes to quickly unload bags into the back mudroom and then secure the Tahoe back in the barn. I engaged the electronic locks in the barn for the first time in a long time. It had several methods of entry – a device somewhat like a garage door opener that could be activated remotely, a keypad, and a non electronic override. That was just for a barn. One could only imagine the fortress like security of the house.

I got inside the back 'mudroom' adjoining the kitchen and quickly armed the alarm. Feeling somewhat safe again, I could go about the mundane task of putting away groceries while allowing my mind to work over the days events. As I carried the first batch to put away, I also activated the built in touch screen in the kitchen and hit the 'Commands' followed by 'Voice'. No where in the house were the occupants, right now being me, any more than 2 feet away from cached weapons of any type. I checked my kitchen drawer, which was a false drawer. It didn't open if a person were to pull the handle. Only by pushing in on the right corner was the spring loaded mechanism activated an the false drawer popped open, revealing no silverware or kitchen utensils, but a fully loaded Ruger LCP semi auto 380. Small at only 2 and ¾ inches and weighing not even 10 ounces, but it was certainly efficient. I made sure it was ready to go.

"System monitor", I commanded, while stacking frozen foods. "Review."

The 10 inch flat screen monitor, which easily doubled as the kitchen TV, had been set up long ago by the genius of Benjamin who had technology then that has just recently become mainstream. The monitor re played clips of activity during the day while I had been gone, as it had armed as soon as I left the property. A rabbit and some deer grazing, but no signs of vehicles or people. Good.

"Delete." I put away canned goods. Blossom had come to see if I brought treats and Jones was now perched on a counter chair. "System monitor… set." This armed the perimeter and gate recording devices. "Alarm at will. Remote." This command would cause the alarm sound to transmit to my remote if any motion was detected (annoying at times due to the wildlife so I rarely used it, but after today, it was my security blanket.)

I fed the kitties.

"System, House." This basically put all the electronic devices at my command. These too could all be operated mechanically by hand without electricity. Benjamin, and Ray as well, never wanted to rely on power, electronics, or computers too much. Very smart men.

"Shield." I heard the muffled rattle as the window guards were lowered into place.

Now, to work. And think.

I carried the mail back to the den. I opened the 'office'.

After putting the DVD into the player, I went into the office. I pulled the file Stalling, Anna Marie /Scott. The DVD was a very nice tribute to Lt. Col Scott Stalling. His sister Anna Marie, was a plain but nice looking woman, perhaps mid 60s, with soft looking dark hair with just a little gray. She was perhaps a bit thin, or maybe just appeared that way because she was quite tall, probably 5'9".

I watched Scott Stallings's life and accomplishments appear in pictures and video on the flat screen and read Ray's notes.

Anna Marie had been a referral from Marcus Clay. Ray always worked most off referral and he always kept track of how his clients interwove. Marcus had been Anna Marie's high school sweetheart and they'd stayed in touch. When Anna was 30, her brother Scott 20, Scott had gone on backpacking trip and never returned. Anna suspected it had something to do with his recent new "friends" who had supposed connections to a large marijuana operation. Ray had tracked and infiltrated the pot growers, posing as a migrant farm worker and was hired as temp help to pick the vast fields, just beyond the Mexican boarder. There he found Scott, living as a para military guard to the fields doing things he wasn't sure he wanted to, but embedded to deeply to find a way out. Ray helped Scott, after some convincing, and along the way managed to take down a good percent of the pot operation.

Ray had noted in his scrawl, dated a year after his favor to Anna Marie, that Scott had joined the Army and was in basic at the Presidio in Monterey.

As the DVD ended and silence fell on the room I couldn't help but just stare the handwriting. Ray's bold letters, mostly caps, a mix of cursive and print.

Dammit Ray. I need you.

You can't hide forever. Those words on that note…

_You look like you did back then  
You kiss me like you did back when  
You and I first fell in love  
Time has been good to you  
I said I always knew it would  
You're more lovely every day.  
_  
_Just like a mighty river runs to the sea  
My love for you keeps growing  
It was meant to be  
It will never go away  
Its deeper and stronger every day  
Like a river to the sea  
You know you can count on me.  
These hands on the clock should know  
That time just can't pass this slow  
When I'm away  
But I've got my job to do  
Then I'll hurry home to you  
I'm waiting for the day._

_Just like a mighty river runs to the sea  
My love for you keeps growing  
It was meant to be  
It will never go away  
Its deeper and stronger every day  
Like a river to the sea  
You know you can count on me. ****_

(River to the Sea, Steve Wariner singer/songwriter)

No pills tonight. I would sleep fitfully, in between dreams and waking with every night time noise and occasional alarm beep. The reason for the dreams at least may have been looking into the closet for a sweater and laying eyes upon the remaining piece of Ray's wardrobe: the black leather jacket that was a almost an extension of the man. Even after all this time, the jacket still smelled faintly of leather and cologne; familiar to my senses as a baking cake. But this scent drew mostly an ache deep in my chest. I touched it, feeling the cool soft leather under my finger tips. Closed my eyes.

It wasn't long enough. But it was long enough to last forever.

_ "Why do you do that?" Ray asked. _

_ We were sitting in the coffee shop we frequented enough to be familiar in the early morning after a long workout. Tai Chi, a mile run, my early training in self defense. _

_ "What?" I asked, sipping the rich dark coffee brew. _

_ "When you run, you think too much."_

_ "huh?" I almost laughed. But he was serious._

_ "You need to concentrate on 'now', concentrate on your breathing, your body, every feeling in the moment. Stop dwelling on what was and what might be. Clear your mind. Look. Listen. Feel."_

_ I thought about his words, true of course. But how could he know what was in my mind as we pounded down the sand, footfalls slightly muffled, beating a path along the ocean way?_

_ "I just know," he said, a slight smile, taking a sip of his own coffee. _

_ "I hate it when you do that," I said then, knowing he knew that too. Ray had been studying people for more time and had a practice for reading their faces, their eyes, and at times it appeared, their thoughts. Some, maybe like me, were more vulnerable, innocent, to his abilities. Not enough experience hiding from the world, or rather dealing with it and pretending not to care, or jaded over, not caring at all. _

_ "Try. You'll see."_

What was he telling me then, so many years ago, and now as if it were yesterday in my dreams?

_ Ray disappeared for stretches of time, leaving me a note usually at his place to which I had a key. The note always contained things he expected me to accomplish while he was away. He was of course doing what he did: helping people. At times it took a week, other times a month. Those times, before I knew what he did, I didn't understand and tended to withdraw. I accomplished the goals set to me, if it was as small as "take out my garbage" or "learn Portuguese." (That one took 6 weeks, but I was well on my way to being done when he returned 3 weeks later; thanks to Ray and his 'chores', I speak 6 languages besides English- Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, Russian, German and French, along with a bit of Vietnamese. ) He also had mego places I never had a reason to go such as "drive to San Francisco, go to China Town, a shop called Mai Wa," and left me a list of foreign things to acquire once I got there. He always left money, and any other things I might need to get his job done. He knew I didn't quite understand, but it was just another tool in his arsenal of tools he used to teach me things, things I didn't even know I was supposed to learn._

_ After almost 11 months of faithfully 'obeying', I had a momentary irritation when it seemed I was getting nothing and put out a lot of effort and he was getting the benefits. I commented on this one evening after a glass of wine too many. Ray smiled in that irritatingly arrogant smile that only made me madder. _

_ "You think I'm taking advantage of your good nature?" he asked._

_ "I don't know what to think! What am I accomplishing? I've got one semester left in school and I spend half the time running your errands, learning some useless languages, and getting nothing out of it!"_

_ "Fez você aprender paciência?"_

_ Did I learn patience? He asked me in Portuguese. _

_ "Eu aprendi que você pode ser um bastardo," I retorted quickly. _

_ Ray laughed. "And a year ago, did you think you would think that you could be so outspoken as to call any man a bastard, or that you would do it in one of the most beautiful languages in the world?"_

_ He was right. As usual. I would have been way to timid to say that to anyone's face. In as much, never having interacted much with different people in different places, I now found myself more at ease in strange situations and thinking on my feet how to navigate them._

_ I had also learned to defend myself, with some weapons by then, as well as my now graceful interpretation of martial arts fighting. This built my confidence level up so that I found myself meeting people's eyes passing in the street, where before I always avoided others' gaze. _

_ "Sie sind bereit."_

_ German now (it was what I was currently studying.) _

_ "Ready? What am I ready for?"_

_ "To go with me."_your document here...


End file.
